I don’t like to think of myself as a person who “others” my neighbors. I like to think of myself as a person who is open and inclusive—as a person who really lives into that story from Acts 8 where the Ethiopian eunuch asks Philip what is keeping him from being baptized, and Philip baptizes him. I’d like to believe that I embody the sower in the parable of the sower in the gospel of Matthew—that I indiscriminately throw out seeds—regardless of the soil in which those seeds are landing. And yet, that isn’t true. I “other” people, and frankly, I “other” people for the truly stupidest reason. There is nothing noble or justice-y about my othering. I “other” people when their values or actions or words come into conflict with mine because I am super conflict averse and I want my relationships to be easy, and it is more comfortable for me to “other” people and to pull away from them than it is for me to get curious and to draw closer to them.

As I have reflected on this bothersome truth, I think that the lie that I have been telling myself is that in doing this, I am drawing boundaries. I have fooled myself into believing that I am not “othering” people by pushing them away because there are things about them that are problematic or harmful, and that I am just trying to protect myself or others. The thing is, though, that there is a difference between harm and discomfort, and most of the time, when I “other” people, it is not because they have actually harmed me. It is because I am uncomfortable. It is because I seem to think that peace is an absence of conflict, when actually, it is a transforming of conflict, and a working through of conflict. So, that’s part of my challenge. To expand my circle of human concern, I must stop trying to escape from conflict, and I must learn how to enter into it.

I shared with my peer group that last week, I had a conversation with a pastor at another church in the town where I work regarding a billboard that they had up for “Bible Bootcamp” VBS. The billboard had guns and tanks and soldiers and all of this military imagery that I found troubling. My first thought was to complain about the sign to my more like-minded pastor friends—to further draw that divide between “us” and “them”—or to put something about how theologically incorrect it was on social media. Instead, I decided to enter into the conflict and my discomfort about it and to attempt to put some of what we have been learning into action. I emailed the church’s pastor and asked him questions about why “Bible Bootcamp” appealed to the church, and what the military imagery meant to them.

The conversation that we had was good. It didn’t change any minds, but it gave me a better understanding of where the church was coming from. He also seemed to appreciate that I shared my concerns without crapping all over him. It felt like a bridge building moment, and I am super excited about it, because it so easily could have been an “othering” moment. Truthfully, it was almost an “othering” moment, and only wasn’t because of JOH. I have no illusions that I am suddenly going to become a successful bridge builder because I did it one time, but I am hopeful that perhaps, “othering” will become less and less of a reflex as I keep pushing myself to get comfortable with conflict. I think that God is on the move in my heart.

Self-Reflection Prompt for JOH Blog:

A thread throughout Module 4 was the link between power and the Christian faith. How did the faith that you inherited impact your relationship with and proximity to power? How did that relationship impact your approach toward our interfaith relatives? What might it look like for you to leverage, divest, or redistribute power as a practice of interfaith or intrafaith peacemaking?

I don’t even know where to start- Yes- I was born into a conservative American Christianity, without women in pastoral leadership or LGBTQ inclusion. Then, when we moved to Cairo, all of the sudden I was no longer in the religious, ethnic, or cultural majority. But power dynamics are very, very tricky, when you’re overseas as many in JOH are familiar. Being a white Westerner ascribes unearned privileges and power. You get to jump the line ahead of locals. You get preferential treatment often. First choice access to medical care and nicer hospital rooms. You are seen as more important. You have an embassy to protect you. You are “rich” even if in America, you are middle income range. You have desirable skin and eye color. You are glamorous or exotic- like the Americans on TV. This grooms foreigners to believe this. To believe we deserve to cut in front of locals, who perhaps are poor, dirty, uneducated, “unimportant.” To believe our prerogative is clearly more important than that of the throngs of over people vying for the same bus, or plane, or services. People assume you’re Christian, because most Americans “are.” So here’s the thing- we can wield our power for good things- we CAN pay better, so others in the service industry have more income (markups at the vegetable stand, employing housekeepers, drivers, cooks and gardeners- luxuries beyond reach in the US). We can tip the guys who fight to carry our suitcases to the taxi. My parents employed one housekeeper for over 18 years. Saida divorced her husband when he wanted to take a second wife. Moxie! My parents put her kids through university and gave her a retirement. Power. For Good. But I definitely believe the air of superiority is inescapable for most Western families in this position, mine included. We had access to services in Egypt that local Egyptians would never have access to. We had the audacity to believe that we could disregard the feelings of those who, truthfully, we devalued- poor, don’t speak English, unimportant. If we had a medical emergency, we’d get med-evacuated.

Flipside- I share this with this caveat- this is my truth, and I’m still unpacking it as I process power, white supremacy, implicit bias, etc. But- I DO think I can say I know how it feels to be discriminated against for being white, and being a woman. And this sounds odd, because for all the experiences I described above, as having significant power, I was also devalued and defrauded on the regular. Charged more for goods and services when I wanted the fair price. Haggled and harassed by folks hoping for additional tips or bribes. Constant incidences of “the man with the key isn’t here.” Being “randomly selected” to have luggage searched, and additional questioning. My parents having to make multiple, multi-hour trips to the government bureaucracy building, where they had to get stamps from at least ten guys behind desks, in order to secure a visa for this or that situation. Having to pay someone just to have a few squares of toilet paper. And the more sinister- constant, daily sexual harassment, and worse. Since I was ten. To adulthood. Can’t go anywhere without being stared at, whistled at, followed, hissed at. No matter what I was wearing, no matter what I was doing, no matter how friendly or culturally appropriate I was being. The stereotypes of white, American women are dominated by porn culture. So, we are objectified as such. And I should say- this is a violent, patriarchal culture that victimizes Egyptian Women to all extremes as well, and has been a major point of contention bubbling to the surface since the uprising of the Arab Spring. It’s not safe to travel on public transportation, emotionally or even physically. Many Egyptian women have no option. But, we walked, biked and taxi’d most places. My family didn’t have a car, like most Embassy, military or oil families did. I’ve had a lot of therapy to work through the trauma of years of harassment, etc. for something I was born with- a white, female body and blue eyes.

Segueing into the religious power dialogue. So, I actually loved living in a diverse environment. The call to prayer was both beautiful, haunting, and annoying- remember I was just a kid trying to get some sleep when the early call goes off outside my window! But mostly I loved seeing how the culture lived out its predominant faith in all the expressions we see of American Christianity. The hyper-orthodox. The hyper-zealous. The daily mosque crowd because it’s just “what we do.” The meh crowd. The wealthy who would eat pork while traveling, drink alcohol…. Those who fasted during Ramadan and those who only sort of did. Teammates who would step off the court to eat if the sun went down during volleyball practice. Not all Muslims are the same. Christianity obviously predated Islam in Egypt (in fact, the Coptic Orthodox Church has a looong tradition of holy sites where they believe Jesus performed miracles as a child, stories we in the West know nothing about.) But, there is significant tension and discrimination from the dominant Muslim powers over the minority Coptic Christians (and evangelicals, there is a small but healthy population of Evangelical Egyptians). You can build a mosque virtually anywhere, but if you want to renovate a bathroom in a church, saddle up for months even years of bureaucracy and roadblocks. So, while in the US, Christian v. Muslim relationships are predominantly a white v. brown situation, in Egypt, the ethnic situation was different. Muslims in Egypt are historically Arab. Christians are historically of the Coptic ethnicity, not just religion. They are derived from Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, Macedonians,… everyone else who traversed the land. Their Coptic language is also a mix of those ancient languages. So, the power dynamic is similar to tribalism as much as religion, as is the source of much conflict around the world. I could say more, but my church was an English speaking, multi-demoninational congregation with folks from all over the world. We also had a large African refugee population, who fled violence and landed in Egypt. People with darker skin are seen as less in the eyes of the dominant culture (which is brown). So, African refugees flee violence, to come to Egypt, to be further discriminated against for their darker skin and often Christian roots. Those that came to our church were welcomed, however, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the tentacles of racism infiltrated there as well. It was not very common for American families and African refugee families to comingle. So, again here we see racial division within an international church, within a country context of religious and racial discrimination as well… so complicated.

Fast forward, I also lived in Utah for several years, again, a religious minority amongst a predominantly Mormon population, where there is clear discrimination from Mormon majority towards non-mormon neighbors, even if you have the same skin color. Sorry, your kid’s not invited to the birthday party because you aren’t Mormon.

Where do I find myself in all this? I think my big takeaway from all my years within these different contexts is that it seems that human nature is for the dominant group to withhold power from the minority groups. Whatever and whoever they are. I FULLY affirm and agree that Christianity has a sordid history that we must account for, and I do not exempt myself from White Privilege just because I know what it’s like to be the minority elsewhere. I think Rene’s charge to pay attention to who benefits from policies, decisions, and institutions, and call those into question. In terms of dismantling Christian Nationalism and its stranglehold on our country,… I’m struggling with where to start. Because I can’t gain traction yelling with strangers online, but I also can’t have productive conversations with family members without significant pain. Power ultimately does corrupt, and there are so many layers.

I was living in Bethlehem with a Palestinian Christian family and one afternoon, I was sitting outside the family’s shop with their oldest son who was in his mid-twenty’s. I had just crossed the checkpoint from Jerusalem (a checkpoint he was unable to cross without special permission) and he asked me about the work I was doing. After I shared about the work this organization did and my role in it, he asked this piercing question: “Who is your reconciliation work really for?” He expressed his deep distrust in reconciliation work and his distrust in people like myself who came to this land for a short time and then left when it was convenient for us. He saw it as disingenuous and simply unhelpful. I was shocked and didn’t know how to respond. I knew there were tourists who passed through who were deeply problematic and disregarded the Palestinian perspective, but I had distanced myself from “those people.” I thought I was there to learn, to hear stories, and to help facilitate space for the work of reconciliation to begin. 

However, upon reflection, this young man was right. Who was I to show up in his homeland and call for reconciliation? Even though I had extensively studied the conflict, I had not lived it. Even though I cared deeply for this place and the people, I could leave at any moment. What this man wanted was a good job, the ability to travel freely, and justice that had too long been denied his community. I could not offer any of those things nor was the work I was doing really addressing what this man needed. My identity of being a “good person” and having “good intentions” was questioned. My power and privilege as a white U.S. citizen became painfully clear. I began to grasp how good intentions in reconciliation work are not enough and can in fact be harmful. This experience led me to rethink what it means to engage in reconciliation and to closely examine whose voices are excluded from the conversation on reconciliation.

I had read the books about peace and reconciliation. I had taken the classes and participated in the workshops. Yet, I had missed the heart of the matter. I had intellectualized reconciliation and viewed it as something that had to be achieved and won. The conversation with this man taught me that reconciliation must be tangible, embodied, and indigenized. True reconciliation is not possible if we remain in the philosophical, theoretical realm and do not listen to those most affected by the conflict we are trying to solve. Here I was crossing barriers and checkpoints to work for peace, when this young man, most affected by the conflict and who knew the things that would make for peace, was currently walled off from the reconciliation conversation. 

Our journey toward reconciliation must be led by those most affected, those whose day to day lives are most marred by conflict. Those who have lost family and friends to the violence of conflict, those who have lost jobs to the greed of conflict, those who have lost hope to the persistence of conflict. Those who cry for justice and will not settle for a reconciliation fabricated by the powerful and the privileged.  

Academically, I studied theories of reconciliation while doing my Master’s in Conflict Analysis & Resolution. John Paul Lederach was of course a biggee here. I recall reading about his describing reconciliation as the place where Justice, Peace, Truth, and Mercy meet. It really touched me that this academic scholar was using concepts of reconciliation from the Bible in his academic writings: “Kindness and truth shall meet; justice and peace shall kiss. Truth shall spring out of the earth, and justice shall look down from heaven” (Ps. 85:11-12). Clearly these are not simply lofty religious values reserved only for people of faith, but core concepts that are foundational to bringing about reconciliation in practice.

Practically, through my work at ICRD I came to understand reconciliation processes as containing five main components:

1. Stories—Each party reflects on their own experience of what happened in the conflict—their ‘story’—and tries to separate their perception of what happened from prejudices against the other party.
2. Acknowledgment—Each party is exposed to the other’s story—what the other believes to be true. Each doesn’t have to accept the other’s story as factually true, but recognizes that the other’s story is true to them and important to them. A facilitator can help each party to feel heard and acknowledged, while encouraging each party to hear and acknowledge what’s important to the other.
3. Pardon—Each injured party separates the perpetrator who hurt them from the hurtful action, allowing the perpetrator to be more than simply their hurtful action. This process opens the possibility of change, of a transformed relationship even though the conflict history with its injuries cannot be changed.
4. Restitution/Reparation—This is an act by which the perpetrator of the hurtful act offers demonstration that he/she has changed. The injured party needs to be part of this process and give voice to what he/she needs in order to believe the demonstration of change is sincere.  Together, the parties collaborate in trying to find an appropriate restitution that will allow them to move forward without violence.
5. Restored Relationship/Collaboration—The parties move to a new perception of each other so that they can have a different relationship, a relationship of nonviolent coexistence, and perhaps even active collaboration where they build/do something together to promote a more peaceful future.

All of this is important. But what’s most important in my opinion is the spirituality of reconciliation. I believe that at the core of the ideal reconciliation is love.  One of the Bible verses that became most important to me after my country was attacked on 9/11 is: “Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you and persecute you”. Reconciliation involves opening our hearts to the possibility of loving those who have hurt us, to recognizing that someone who does something terrible can be more than the terrible thing they did, that the good God who created every person instilled goodness into the fiber of every person, and no matter how hard some people seem to work to extinguish this goodness, no one is irredeemable, for nothing is impossible for God. Reconciliation means opening our hearts not only to the other but to God—inviting God in to heal our hurts and do the supernatural work of healing relationships that we imperfect humans cannot heal on our own. God is love, and with God all things are possible—which means reconciliation is always possible.

Memories of that speech have never left me. Thus when Archbishop emeritus Mouneer revealed his plans for his new Centre of Christian-Muslim Understanding & Partnership in Cairo and told me that he wanted reconciliation to be at the heart of it I immediately suggested the Coventry Litany of Reconciliation – I have to admit that I was leaning on a rather open door with the Archbishop. Humbled by this experience I now want to learn more so I can make a meaning and impactful contribution to his new centre. And I am looking to you, my fellow pilgrims on the Journey of Hope, to help me on that quest.  

My plan is to persuade the Gingko Interfaith Fellows, a group of young academics who my charity supports and who will gather at Archbishop Mouneer’s Centre in May, to jointly pray the Coventry Litany of Reconciliation at the beginning of our Retreat.

All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class,

FATHER FORGIVE

The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own,

FATHER FORGIVE

The greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth,

FATHER FORGIVE

Our envy of the welfare and happiness of others,

FATHER FORGIVE

Our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless, the refugee,

FATHER FORGIVE

The lust which dishonours the bodies of men, women and children,

FATHER FORGIVE

The pride which leads us to trust in ourselves and not in God,

FATHER FORGIVE

Be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

Fast-forward. We are now adults. I had returned to school to pursue my masters degree. My youngest brother had become the quintessential drug addict and had embraced the lifestyle—he was sleeping on the streets, was stealing food, was in and out of the hospital, was on the grid then he was off the grid. And our relationship was at an all time low. I was struggling to figure out how to interact with my baby brother. There was a nagging sense in me that he still deserved some type of honor, but I couldn’t locate a reason to show him another ounce of kindness, care or concern. 

As it came time to choose a thesis, I picked one with my little brother in mind. I wanted to imagine Jesus interacting with him on the corner of a busy street. My goal was to try to locate my brother’s basic human dignity. This paper rocked my world as I began to explore the concept of human dignity, which originates from God—not out of our own doing— and is of God because we are made in God’s own image and likeness. 

When I started my thesis, I was longing for a reason to honor my brother, despite his life choices. And when I submitted my thesis, I had come to believe that every person—including my brother—has a portion of God’s image or likeness in his or her being, and on that ground alone deserves to be honored even when respect has not been earned. 

This was the first big mile marker in my pursuit and experience of reconciliation. Through this process, I learned that my initial read on the world is not necessarily God’s perspective. This experience intrigued my imagination in regards to the reconciliation God can do in and through creation. 

Shortly after I submitted my thesis, my brother overdosed and died. There is not an easy sentence to summarize the grief of loosing a brother, but throughout my grieving process, I have been on the lookout for God’s image in the memories of my brother. And through this process, have been trained to look for the image of God in all humanity. What an incredible marker of value!

The first time I was taught that peacemaking is the primary work of Jesus-followers was from Elias Chacour, who came to my church in Cairo, Egypt.  I was a young teen or pre-teen, and it was the first time I’d ever heard from someone who lived within a system of such bad blood, fraught history and sworn opposition, who decided to choose the third way.  The way of Jesus.  By then, I’d lived in the Middle East for years, and went to school with kids from many conflict regions.  We’d all just been, well, kids.  Played on the same teams and performed in the same plays.  Our discussions in Social Studies had much more meaning and impact than they probably do Stateside, but while I supposed they led by example of what reconciliation can look like- just growing up together as human beings, I didn’t yet fully grasp what it meant to choose to coexist peacefully among enemies when you graduate into adulthood.  When the historical and cultural expectations of allegiance bear down, and the child’s play is over.  It was also the first time I’d ever heard a preacher dispute that God is fully on the side of Israel in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  That our role as Christians is to choose the third way.  Thinking about it now, it was probably one of the first incidences where I realized that the God lives in the gray, not black and white like I’d been taught.  (Another great example of the gray was when our Canadian pastor at our international church was asked by a Sudanese man with two wives, what they were supposed to do regarding marriage after their whole family accepted Christ,……I still don’t know what he said).  Sadly, in the years since, when I think about the major social justice or faith conflicts, I struggle to think of ANY truly groundbreaking or meaningful displays of the pursuit of reconciliation between two warring opponents that I’ve witnessed in my personal life or the communities in which I’ve lived or worked.  But boy do I see the conflicts. 

Today, I find myself preoccupied by the fact that a church in a nearby town was allowing their kitchen to be used to serve a hot meal to the homeless.  But they locked the bathroom.  Because, they are afraid people might use the shower in the bathroom.  Expletives.  What else should a church building be used for, then to feed and cleanse the downtrodden?  But, they might. Use. The Shower.  God forbid. 

My main area of conflict affecting my day to day work, and my patients, is our community’s divisive response to the unhoused.  And I can’t even count on the local church to open their doors without conditions.  So, I guess to that end, my other primary teacher of reconciliation really is Jesus.  I cannot reconcile how Jesus lived and taught, with the withholding of care to the needy, from within our church and non-church community.  So, naturally, I really struggle to not see my fellow church people as enemies in this context.  But, He is the ultimate reconciler, and has equipped a lot of really amazing folks with reconciling skills!  And here I am, ready to learn from them.

This week, while listening to the wisdom of Irish peacemaker Pádraig Ó Tuama, I am faced with another realization, which is that “peace often looks like the escalation of creative conflict.” If all we’re doing in the face of conflict is trying to avoid that conflict in order to get to a point where we all agree, that is just a temporary, false sense of peace. Choosing to enter into conflict intentionally and with creativity is an act of love and a practice of peacemaking. As we do this, we must seek the truth about the other—through stories, by releasing our own assumptions and judgments about the other, and by choosing to see the humanity of the other. Reconciliation can only happen where there is truth.

Peacemaker Denise Bradley from the Corrymeela Community suggests that we ask the question “what is happening?” rather than “what is wrong with you?” for this allows us to listen with our hearts. It highlights our interconnectedness and the reality that we are experiencing the conflict in different ways. It paves a way for our stories to be told, and our stories to be heard.

This is a lot. It is one thing to listen to the wisdom of leaders and discuss it with this cohort of peacemakers who have become dear friends. What does this look like in “real life,” though? What does this look like in my own church where our congregation is divided, hurting, and where the Covid-19 pandemic is literally separating us from one another? How do we experience the vulnerability of community when we can’t even see each other? How do we experience the vulnerability of community when we choose not to see each other? How do we hear the story of the other when we refuse to listen to the other? When we fail to see the other as a bearer of the image of God? As beloved?

Rather than rush to find the answers, I am choosing to slow down, to breathe, and to not fear the discomfort of tension. Perhaps this is where restoration is to be found.

Image Source: https://lorenzoquinn.com/portfolio-items/tension/